Once, Kinadarn was a half-elf. No more. Though he is tall and lean, no hair, neither blonde nor black, cascades from his brow, no brilliant blue or green eyes glitter beneath it, and no skin, neither fair nor fell is stretched taut across his cheeks. No, Kinadarn has become something else entirely, for it is a harsh, rough bark that protects his innards from the elements, while milky white sensors gaze unblinkingly from beneath a crown of twisted thorns and rose blossoms.
Kinadarn wears no clothing, save for the thorny vines that twist and turn about his body, sprouting from his barky skin. Nor does he carry objects, trusting nature itself to provide for him.
The Northerners were coming, and they brought iron with them. The Northerners were coming, and they came to take land, to steal the people, and to rape the forests with fire and iron. They were coming, and Kinadarn was without recourse, save for Mirandar’s new Blossoms.
He had walked among the children of the deep Southern forests for nearly a millenium now, drifting from tribe to tribe, for they accepted him as one of them. For a thousand years, he had learned from them, learning to love the deep forests as his own, like the human mother who had born him and passed of years in the blink of his eye. Like the elven father who had cared for him for a time, then danced with the light of eternity, as his kind were wont to do. His heavy feet could not dance that dance, but they could slip among the leaves and grasses without trace, and when he was tired, he learned to slip into the forests, where he could forget his mind, and live as a beast, for a time, until he could bear the time once more, and remember.
But now, the Northerners were coming. And they would try to steal all that from him. And so he put the seed between his lips, and swallowed, and when the pain began, he drank the sap of the hemlock tree, so that he might sleep for a time, and let the flower do with him what it would.
And when he awoke, his unnatural spirit refusing to pass from his newly unnatural body despite the potency of the hemlock, he melted into the forest. The Northerners were coming. And he would show them the power of the Green.
Kinadarn carries no equipment in the traditional sense, trusting in his altered body to protect him, and in the deep forest to provide for him. Because of the advanced evolution of the plant within him, he is extremely well protected from both blade and magic, and while he must fight with his bare ‘body’ as a weapon, his wicked thorns are highly poisonous.
Kinadarn can also rapidly locate many hundreds of valuable plants within the forest, and is able to coax them to seed or bloom as needed.
Having spent literally centuries as a plant-man hybrid, Kinadarn has an understanding of plants to rival the most knowledgeable of hierophants and the reverence for them to rival the most devoted of priests. The concept of Forest is his god now, and it grants him the ability to work magics over Plants in return.
Further, Kinadarn knows quite well how to breed plants, able to bring forth entire new species within the span of years, if he so desires.
Together, these knowledges and devotions merge in the Grove of Kinadarn, a small, open place within the Forest, where a single tree grows, blossoming with a strange fruit, bearing a tough, red rind, the tree ringed round with a thousand different flowering herbs, a hundred of them bearing cures and antidotes for the ills of man, a thousand more of them bearing deadly toxins. It is here that he worships his Forest, and here that he receives its blessing.
From time to time, he will walk among the remaining Southern people, who speak of him as living legend, some few worshiping and telling tales of him as a wrathful demi-god, whose rage must never be awakened. These are melancholy times for him, for now, his poisoned touch and steel-sharp thorns limit how close he can come to the ones he loves.